Piratealia!
by Extrasolar
Summary: Britain is the sly, young up-and-comer of the pirate world: captain of the wild and unpredictable Britannia Legion. But when Britain embarks on the treasure hunt of a lifetime, he finds that becoming a revered pirate won't be quite as easy as he thinks.
1. Prologue: Of Memories and Shadows

_Eyes wide, breath coming in short gasps, the captain of the Silver Leech stumbled into his cabin. _

He lost his balance and then regained it, clutching at his chest. He grimaced. His throat drier than parchment, he licked his lips.

Forced to pause, he looked over his shoulder, gasping for air. Those footsteps were getting louder.

The captain looked around wildly. He sprung into action, tripping toward his desk, and leaning heavily upon it. In a frenzy, he opened and closed the drawers and shoved several items off of the wooden writing desk. Quills, a couple of ink pots, and a few books clattered to the floor.

_Where was it? _

_Dammit. . . !_

_No, he wouldn't let him have it . . ._

_No matter what._

The captain shoved the chair aside. It overbalanced, landing heavily on its side.

_Where'd he put it? It couldn't be anywhere else—_

His mind whirling, the captain leaped over to the bookshelf. In desperation he began withdrawing books, shoving trinkets aside, looking underneath everything and inside anything that had a cavity.

Outside, the dull clang of metal on metal did nothing to drown the sound of the approaching footsteps. From somewhere, a man howled in pain; and there, in the doorway of the cabin, before the captain knew it, _he _stood, from his patchy overcoat to tattered headband looking every inch the scruffy ragamuffin.

Half of the books tossed from the bookshelf, every manner of broken knickknacks on the floor, chair overturned, writing desk a mess, and ink spilling across the wooden floorboards, Great Britain stepped further into the cabin.

The captain of the _Silver Leech_ went rigid, glaring daggers at the man who plagued him.

Great Britain grinned insolently, pointing his cutlass at the captain of the _Silver Leech._ "Well, the little rat is cornered at last!" Narrowing his eyes lazily, Britain ran his finger along the top of the blade, studying every notch on its surface. "Now then. You didn't _really_ think you could escape me, did you, _Captain?"_ He smiled sweetly.

The aging captain of the _Silver Leech_, his hand trembling badly, pointed directly at him_._ "You demon!" he hissed. "You monster—you scum of the sea—" His voice was raspy, and he had to pause, gasping for air. Blood dripped from his hand. "After all that I've done—to be cornered here, by a scrawny half-grown _parasite_—"

Britain only smirked, gazing down his nose at the captain. "Oh, come now," he said, taking on the tone of a scolding mother. "That's no way to speak to a _guest_ . . ."

The captain of the _Silver Leech _spat at him, but it fell miserably short. "_Enough! _I'm not in the mood for your little games! Finish it, and begone!"

Britain scowled, the grip on his cutlass tightening. "_Doddering old fool,_" he snarled. "You didn't think I'd let you cheat me out of what's _mine_, did you?"

The captain exploded. "What's yours? What you'll rob from me! And in such an underhanded manner—"

Britain chuckled, holding up his hands in a placating manner. "Spare me the lecture, won't you, old thing?" He advanced on the captain. "Anyway, your time is up. I'm afraid you've lost your touch, _Captain_. It's about time someone put you out of your misery." A mischievous glint shone in his eye. But he paused, suddenly unsure, as the captain did not huddle into himself, squeeze his eyes shut or turn away.

The captain's face was expressionless, but his eyes shone with revulsion. "You'll get what's coming to you soon enough," he said tonelessly.

Britain laughed flippantly, raising his cutlass. "What's that, old timer? You gonna come back and haunt me? Send me nightmares? _Too bad_. I'm not afraid of the dark."

The captain raised his head, staring Britain directly in the face. The captain's face, gaunt and bruised, held some otherworldly quality. Despite himself, Britain shuddered. "When all is said and done, you'll wish you were on the other end of that blade."

Britain's eyes narrowed. "Well then, I'll see you hell!" he snarled, and struck.

* * *

Outside, all was still.

Britain snickered, leaning in to clean his cutlass on what was left of the captain's tattered old cape. "You aren't the first to curse me," he whispered to the body. "And you certainly won't be the last."

He sheathed his weapon, gazing at the corpse, which leaned against the bookshelf, in satisfaction.

His quick search of the body yielded nothing. As expected. The senile old fool hadn't taken so much as a dagger with him after Britain had requested his presence in his cabin, and had long ago forgone wearing any jewelry. _Old fool._

With a snort, he kicked it aside. The old fool thought he was clever.

Britain turned to the globe on the other side of the bookshelf, and removed its top. Inside, a ruby the size of Britain's fist rested. Extracting it and kicking the globe to the ground, Britain took it over to the stern cabin's window. Shoving the dusty curtains aside, he held it up. Turning it this way and that, it caught the rays of the sun and shone brilliantly.

A slow smile spread across Britain's face.

* * *

The residents of Hiro Isle noticed a change at around noon. A few clouds drifted in, huddling together, and the wind quickened. They spared only a brief, uneasy glance at the skies before continuing with their business. But in the span of a few hours, the skies and clouds darkened, and the wind kicked up a dreadful howling—haunting, even, some said.

Rain came, first falling in droplets, then plodding down indiscriminately. Very soon, it was rolling in sheets.

Fisherman had called it a day, withdrawing their nets and beaching their boats, careful to stop them with a piece of wood. Stalls and shops closed up early, and families barricaded themselves in their homes. Shutters, closed firmly against the elements, were buffeted by the winds.

None of this concerned Great Britain. As the afternoon melted into evening, he sat in his own cabin aboard the _Britannia Angel_, rolling the ruby from one side of his desk to another in excitement. Yes, his old friend would hear _all_ about this one . . . and then there was the crew. Coming off of a successful raid, they were anxious to drink and make merry. Now they huddled below deck in their own cabin, around the pitiful flame of an old lantern. They laughed and shouted, telling tales of their exploits against the crew of the _Silver Leech, _each eager to outdo his companions in brutality and splendor.

The _Britannia Angel_ sailed straight into the storm. The heavy winds whipped the sail mercilessly, the rain sliding across the deck. In Britain's cabin, objects tumbled off of shelves and his desk; maps and scrolls rolled this way and that as large waves crashed against the ship. The _Britannia Angel_ seemed to groan. Britain paid it no mind.

Sprawled on the blood-red couch he'd pinched from someone or other down the line, he smirked at the rain battering his grimy window. He ran a hand through messy blonde hair, stretching lazily.

"The captain's vengeance?" he muttered to himself. Snickering, Britain shook his head, and closed his eyes. "A storm. Not very original, that captain."

* * *

The streets of Hiro Town were deserted. Doors locked firmly against the hostile elements, not a soul alighted on the streets. Palm fronds and bushes whipped about in agitation; the howling of the wind seemed to take on a life of its own. The sea pounded against the beaches, and somewhere, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

None of this concerned Britain in the least. The _Britannia Angel_ pulled into port, dropping anchor and hoisting the sails. Excitable as ever, the Britannia Legion poured off of the _Britannia Angel_, the few left behind on watch grumbling and cursing their luck. Britain strode at the front of the pack, off of the docks, and into the main part of town with long, deliberate strides. He carried himself with certain poise, as though there were crowds of people there to witness and marvel at him.

Eyes squinted slightly against the wind, Britain kept his head raised. He ignored the biting rain and the sensation of the cold, tattered fabric against his skin. The Britannia Legion cheered and yelled, as if in an attempt to draw a crowd. Not a head poked out from a window. At last, Britain turned off of the main street, coming into an alleyway.

There was a single door here; solid, dark wood. Above the doorway, letters washed out and lopsided, a sign proclaimed the building the _Rusty Bucket. _

_This was it._

Stopping only briefly to brush a bit of wet hair out of his eyes, Britain kicked the door open and started inside, wearing his usual insolent smirk. He hadn't gotten three steps before he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. Behind him, the crew bristled. A few jostled one another for a view into the tavern, but none dared enter before Britain.

"_Hoi! What's the deal, Cappin?"_

"_What's the holdup?"_

"_People in our places, or what?"_

"_Quit elbowin' me, ya ass!"_

"_I'm cold as hell . . . can't we go in?"_

Britain didn't react. There, sitting on his stool at the front of the counter, a figure wearing a dark green cloak, hood up, leaned in, whispering something to the tavern keeper. The tavern keeper, a youngish man with wispy brown hair, looked up at the door opening. The color drained from his face instantly; Britain's smirk returned. Britain didn't budge from his spot. The tavern keeper, Faustus, muttered urgently.

"_Yes, yes, thank you, alright . . ." _

In a few deft movements, Faustus shoved a piece of paper underneath the counter and tossed a few gold coins into the palm of the hooded figure. Faustus nodded briefly in conclusion. The figure rose without uttering a single word. It turned and marched toward the door, head down. Britain thought he caught a few glimpses of blonde hair. The figure moved past him as though he wasn't there.

His eyes boring into the figure, Britain blocked the doorway from where he stood. Shoving him aside with a shoulder, the figure exited. The Britannia Legion clustered around the door and watched him. The figure plowed his way through them indiscriminately.

"'_Ey! What the hell you think yer doin, bastard?"_

"_Watch it! Quit shovin'!"_

"_W-what the hell…?"_

Ignoring the buffeting wind and rain, the figure walked down the cobblestone street, and disappeared into the night. There was a silence; the Britannia Legion was abuzz with the news.

"_The hell . . . ? Did ya just see that?"_

"_Who's that guy think he is…? Didn't even say nothin' to Cappin Britain!"_

"_Yeah—kind of—kind of push-shoved him, like—"_

Britain stepped further into the tavern. Faustus plastered on his best smile, throwing his arms out. "Aha, lookit what we got here, it's Cappin Britain! And his Legion!"

Britain didn't say anything. Faustus shuddered involuntarily at Britain's smirk. "Well now, I'd say this is a pleasant surprise!" Faustus went on, a bit too loudly. "Why don't ya sit yerself down here, have a drink, the like?" The corners of Faustus' smile began to twitch. His eyes darted back and forth across Britain's face, searching for a clue to the man's mood.

The Britannia Legion poured in, boots squelching on the wooden floor. They filled the space around the circular tables across from the counter, shoving one another as they clamored for a wanted seat.

"_Hoi! Move yer ass! I saw it first!"_

"_Yer too slow about it, bastard! Find yerself a diffren' space!"_

"_Pfft, he needs two spaces, as wide as he is!"_

Guffaws broke out from around several tables, and the offender was on the receiving end of a smack from the crew member in question. Faustus was blind and deaf to the merriment of the crew.

Britain's slow stride at last came to a rest at the counter. He looked into Faustus' eyes only briefly before turning away. Eyes half-lidded, he looked to the left and right, taking in the _Rusty Bucket_ for all it was worth. "We your first customers of the evening?" Britain asked. He shook his head slowly, his voice taking on a somber tone. Faustus breathed an inward sigh of relief, noting that if patrons had been unlucky enough to find themselves in the Rusty Bucket upon Britain's arrival, they'd most certainly regret it. Faustus thought Britain looked almost disappointed. "Must be lonely tonight. . ." Britain went on. He paused to yawn. "With _nobody_ to talk to . . ."

But then again, with no one to abuse, the energy reserved for such actions was left over for Britain to take out on Faustus himself.

Faustus' head bobbed up and down, sweat beading on his forehead. "Haha, ya don't know the 'alf of it, sir . . . this storm blew in this afternoon . . . whippin' leaves and the tide everywhere! Ya shoulda seen how quick them streets cleared out. My place here was empty afore the sun went down! Everybody's holed up in their houses now, huddled up with their blankets! Not a thing stirrin'—even the rats down in the cellar!" Faustus chuckled weakly. His hands trembling slightly, he began pulling out mugs from below the counter. "Can't say I blame 'em, though . . . this here, it's a nasty one . . . worse'n any we've seen this year. It's the beginnin' a summer, after all, the rainy season—" Faustus ran out of things to ramble about. Britain turned to face him, that mischievous twinkle in his eye. Faustus averted his gaze, and concentrated instead on lining up the mugs on the counter.

Britain frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, you're not looking so well, old chap . . . Are you sure you're feeling quite all right . . .?"

Faustus was conscious of Britain's stare burning into him. Slowly, he raised his head and locked eyes with Britain. He forced a smile, and nodded. "I'm flattered Cappin Britain would think about me, but I'm completely –"

"Hoi! What's the holdup, eh?" a Britannia Legion member called out, banging on the table.

"Yeah!" his companion added. "Where's the booze? I'm tired as hell, and lookin' for a way to unwind, y'know!"

"Drinks!" someone else cried. "C'mon, drinks! Drinks!"

There was a loud roar of agreement. Britain fell silent, smiling at his crew as a proud parent would their child. Faustus hesitated just a second too long; Britain turned back to him.

"Well? What's the matter, Faust? Got a bit of a hearing problem?" He snickered. "Oh, getting up there in years, eh, old chap?"

"I'm twenty-five," Faustus said dryly.

An awkward silence prevailed in the room. For several seconds, the only sound was that of the rain pounding on the roof. Britain's eyes widened at Faustus' words. Faustus' blood ran cold as Britain's hand strayed toward his cutlass. He looked thoughtful.

"_Twenty-five?"_ Britain repeated, as though he hadn't understood. He paused for a long moment, dragging his eyes across Faustus' face, with his hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass. Without warning, he broke out into a smile, and the cutlass hand moved to rest on his cheek. "Is that so! I took you for a man of thirty, at least! Thirty-five, now that's more like it!"

The crew roared their approval. Britain nodded, looking very pleased with himself. Faustus swooned slightly, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. But he didn't laugh. Another grave mistake.

Suddenly, Britain frowned, crossing his arms. "_Come_ now, Faustus . . . if I didn't know better, I'd go so far as to say that you _weren't_ happy to see me. . . ."

The crew's laughter dissipated like mist in the sunlight. The hard stares of dozens of men focused upon one hapless tavern keeper.

"_That true, Fausty? Huh, izzit?"_

"_Cummon, speak up now!"_

Faustus trembled faintly, looking everywhere but at Britain. "No!" he cried, far too quickly. He paled, and then started to stammer. "Er. . . not that I'm not happy yer here! Jus'… I hadn't 'spected you . . . tonight . . . here."

Britain grinned. He turned away. His back against the counter, he let his gaze roam over the ranks of the Britannia Legion, each silent and attentive to his every word and movement. A few fingered daggers and blades on their belts, muscles poised for action. "Keeps you on yer toes, doesn't it?" Britain chuckled. "Besides, nothing scares me. Especially not some weather. A bit of water and wind separates the _real_ pirates from the pretenders."

The _Rusty Bucket_ was filled with the cheers and jeers of the Britannia Legion.

"_That's right!"_

"_You tell 'em, Cap!"_

"_Damn straight!"_

Faustus' eye twitched faintly. At last Britain scoffed and turned around. His gaze bore into Faustus, whose eyes were rooted on the counter.

Britain leaned forward slightly, frowning. He studied Faustus' face closely, his brow furrowed. "What's the matter, old chap? You look like you've seen a ghost . . ."

Faustus struggled to keep his hands from trembling. He bit his lower lip, his eyes shifting to the counter, and back to the mug. "Wha – oh, nothin', sir. Nothin' at all. Many thanks fer yer concern, though. . ."

Britain took a seat and placed his elbows on the counter, smiling thinly. "Don't be that way, Faustus. I'm _asking_ you a question. I'm _concerned_ . . . you know I don't like to see a friend of mine looking so . . . out of it."

Faustus swallowed and shook his head. "The—there's nothing to tell, sir. Like I said . . . I'm fine. Mus' . . . mus' just be the weather. Maybe a cold?" He forced a laugh. "Aha, must be workin' too hard again, eh . . . .?" Faustus gave a sort of crooked smile, and with great effort on his part, looked Britain in the eye. Faustus cast about for a change of subject. "So, er, where ya comin' from, Cappin?"

A good tactic, Faustus thought—getting Britain to jaw about his escapades kept his mind off of . . . other things. The corners of Britain's mouth lifted in a mischievous grin.

"Not far away at all, actually! A few leagues west of here."

Faustus nodded, keeping his tone as conversational as he could. "That so?" He filled the mugs with ale from the barrels he had next to the shelves behind the counter. "You just left Renzi, then? No, no—Lera—" In pairs, he started placing the mugs before the impatient Britannia Legion.

"_Well, finally!"_

"_Alright!"_

Britain's grin widened. He looked every inch the child hiding a secret. "No, guess again."

Faustus paused for a moment and frowned. "Er, Toola Mara, then? Or . . . Numon, but that's a couple of days' voyage away—"

Britain looked beside himself with excitement; he seemed to have great difficulty not bursting into laughter. "No, not an island. Guess again."

Placing a mug carefully before a gruff-looking Britannia Legion, Faustus shook his head. "You were. . . in the middle of the sea? Doing what, Cappin?"

Britain nearly dissolved into a fit of laughter. "I'll give you a hint. I was on a ship. But not the_ Britannia Angel_."

Faustus slid a mug toward Britain. "Another pirate ship?" At Britain's vigorous nod, Faustus said slowly, "Another pirate ship . . ." After a pause, he cried, "Oh, come on, Cappin, I'll never guess which one!"

Britain scowled into his mug. "Fine, then! The _Silver Leech_!"

Faustus brightened. "Oh! You were with old Captain Charlock! How'd yer visit go, eh? Is Cappin looking well?"

A slow grin spread across Britain's face, and he narrowed his eyes in Faustus' direction. Faustus suppressed a shudder. Britain said nothing.

Faustus blinked. "Er, sir . . .? Is something . . . wrong with the Cappin?"

Britain's eyes widened as if Faustus had said something unexpected. He shook his head, tilting his mug toward him to take a sip. "Wrong? Oh, I don't know. Unless you count being dead with a gash the width of a thumb across your torso—"

_Clang._

The mug Faustus had been holding in preparation for cleaning clattered to the ground, shattering into dozens of pieces. He froze, staring wide-eyed at Britain.

Britain only tilted his head, as if confused. "_Oh dear_. You really _should_ be more careful, Faustus . . . what if that had been one of the good mugs?"

Faustus opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He tried again, his questions stumbling over one another. "W-wha . . . how . . . but whe . . .?"

Britain regarded him with amusement, pausing to drink deeply from his mug. "What's that, Faustus? What's the matter?"

At last Faustus recovered himself. "Dead?" he said, as if Britain had been speaking another language. "It can't be. . ."

"It can," Britain said as simply as if they had been discussing the weather.

"But—who could have . . . who would have—?"

"Oh, don't _tell_ me you haven't caught on yet, chap," Britain said lazily. He pushed away his empty mug, and placed his elbows on the counter. "Me, of course."

Faustus' heart pounded; the sweat returned. "Oh," was all he could get out. Britain didn't seem to need any prodding to tell the story. That glint of excitement returned to his eye, and a hint of pride edged into his voice.

"The crusty old relic, it's a wonder he managed to stay afloat for so long. But don't expect any fancy tricks. He walked right into it, I'll tell you that."

Despite his every instinct, Faustus leaned forward, his voice lowering. The Britannia Legion, making a ruckus several feet away, were none the wiser. In a sort of horrified curiosity, he asked, "Walked right in? What do you mean?"

Britain snorted. "Just what I said. Just walked right up to me, without a weapon to be seen, that idiotic look on his face—" He stopped himself. "No, I suppose I better start from the beginning." His face lit up. "You know, they'll be telling this tale for generations! The Great Captain Britain, Lord of the _Britannia Angel_, effortlessly slaying Captain Charlock of the _Silver Leech_, one of the most legendary pirates of the Western Sea! Huh, I'll tell you what—when I get _that _age, nobody'll get the better of me!—But I suppose I'll get on with it." His expression lapsed once again to one of disinterest, and he examined a fingernail. Faustus was hooked on his every word; shadows from the weak glow of the lantern hanging above them danced across Britain's face.

* * *

"A few days ago, the Legion and I were adrift a bit west of here—and a little bit north, too, I suppose, just off of Umoa Isle—you know it, don't you? The _Britannia Angel_ sprung a leak! The crew scrambled to bail water and patch up the leak, but it was lookin' bad. We resolved to land on Umoa, spend a little while there collectin' lumber, fix up the ship, and get on our way. Not a thing to be found on Umoa anyway. Nothin' worth collecting, that is.

"But—miracle of miracles—who would come driftin' along but old Charlock himself in the _Silver Leech._ He pulled up right alongside us, and I told him about our predicament." Britain stood suddenly. "Picture it—me, having been fetched by a Legion, ambling onto the deck, looking dazed, and above all, _exhausted_—" Britain shaded his eyes from the rays of an imaginary sun, looking about him as though he was unsure of where he was. Faustus watched, spellbound, a curious mixture of horror and fascination on his face. "I caught sight of Charlock then, and you should've seen how my face lit up—I looked like a miracle itself had been sent down from on high, _just_ to rescue me." The hopeful look on Britain's face didn't fit his silky, cold tone of voice. "We greeted each other like old friends—chums! Best shipmates, that!" Britain beamed, extending a hand. "'Why _hello_ there, Captain Charlock! What a stroke of luck, running into you here! For, you see . . ." Britain averted his eyes, kicking lightly at the ground. "I'm afraid I have a bit of a problem . . . oh, but I'm sure you have far better things to—" He blinked. "What's that? Oh, you're a true gentleman, sir! You'll really do it? Oh, thank you, _thank you_!'"

Britain scoffed. "We anchored at Umoa. Seeing as our ship was taking on water, Charlock agreed to house us on the _Silver Leech, _while he lent a hand with fixing up the _Britannia Angel_ with some of his lumber_. _Escorted me right to the spare cabin—the rest of the Legion he packed in with his crew. We had the best of the best, those few days—soft pillows, soft blankets—and the grub—you don't know the half of it—" He stared in Faustus' direction, but seemed to be looking right through him. "Truth of it is, that crusty old thing ate ten times better than you or me have in our entire lives. Dancin', singin', and games in the evening—sitting with old Charlock in his cabin, watchin' the sun set over a game of chess." Britain sighed in a way Faustus tried to interpret as longingly. But a second later, Britain chuckled. "But I haven't even told you the _best _part."

He smiled, reliving every detail as he told it. "One day, during a game of chess, old Charlock had to excuse himself. That second was what I'd been waiting for—I jumped up, rummaging through whatever I could get my hands on. Trust me. There wasn't much there—a musty old text, some old letters, the ink bleeding all over the place, some spare quills . . . but then, I opened up one of the drawers of his desk." Britain gasped, his eyes widening, his hands trembling as he reached toward the imaginary item. "And _there_ it was, the thing I'd been searching for . . ."

He paused. Faustus whispered hoarsely. "What . . .?"

"The ruby!" Britain cried in a hushed voice, looking to his left and right as though concerned that he might be overheard. "Charlock's famous ruby! You remember the story—don't you? Eons ago, Charlock won the hearts of the people of Yalin Island, for ridding them of a sea beast that had plagued their fishing boats for generations. Their king presented him with the ruby—and never did he trade it, or spend it." He spoke almost reverently, and brought his hands together, stroking the surface of an invisible ruby. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, and he nearly spat his words. "I knew for a long time it was just _lying_ there, _unused_, gathering _dust_ _somewhere_ in his cabin. And I knew that it would be _mine_. But never did I have the chance to search for it—until that very moment." He scowled suddenly, clenching a fist. "But then, I heard the clumping of Charlock's footsteps returning, and had to dash to put the room in order. I plastered such a smile on my face it hurt as he came in and found me sitting at the chess table, hands folded patiently, awaiting his return.

"But I had a plan, and Charlock was none the wiser. I smiled and laughed and complimented to the best of my ability, and, the following morning, I set my plan into action. There I was. . ." Once again, he became the shy, demure young captain, unsure of himself in the presence of such a great man. "'Oh, oh _Captain_! I would be ever so happy if you would take breakfast with me, in my cabin. . .? You don't mind, do you . . .?'" Britain spluttered a bit on his words, holding up his hands. "Oh, oh, I'm probably being too forward, aren't I—? I'm so sorry! Please forget I said any . . . what's that?" Britain stared into space, as if slowly taking in the information. He beamed suddenly. "You'll do it! Oh, thank you, sir! I'll be waiting!'" Grinning foolishly, he bowed at the waist. "I skipped back to the cabin as cheerfully as a maiden collecting flowers, humming a song to myself. I waited. Crouched there, in the corner, out of immediate view. I gripped my cutlass, envisioning the very moment when it would be tasting his flesh—" His breath started coming faster. "I don't know how long I waited—my mind was elsewhere. But sure enough, I heard the clop-clop-clop of his footsteps on the stairs down into the cabin—

"He didn't know what hit him. One second, he was stumbling into the cabin, looking lost when he did not see me. Out I jumped, from behind a bookshelf, with a yell—the brilliant flash of metal, caught by the way the rising sun shone _just_ right into the cabin window—and the splash of red. The brilliant splash of red, coating his white shirt, and part of the wooden floor. . .oh, you should've seen his face!" Unable to suppress a laugh, Britain added, "And I would've painted the walls with that blood of his, had not he at last caught on, turned, and fled up the stairs. Those clunky, uneven steps receding from me . . . in that second, I never _felt_ more alive . . .!" He was breathing heavily now, and stopped to wet his lips.

"Of course, the old relic's howls woke his crew, but they were just as slow on the mark as he was. The Legion and I'd already talked about our plans the night before. Before they sorted out what happened, the Legion was on 'em, killing, stabbing, beating—they didn't stand a chance. Old Corpseface himself limped toward his cabin—oh, don't think I don't know what he was up to. Trying to flee the ship with that ruby of his . . . but he didn't account for something. When I'd rushed to put everything in order yesterday, I'd moved the ruby.

"It was a joy to behold, Faustus. The thought of him turning that place upside down looking for it—but it was in his reach no longer." A hungry look appeared in his eyes. "And when I start somethin', I like to finish it—"

Faustus, eyes wide, murmured, "How did you, er, finish the job. . .?"

Britain shrugged. "Oh, slashed the throat, nothin' major."

"Burial at sea . . .?" Faustus went on. "Cut the sails . . .?"

Britain blinked. "What's that, chap?" He shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, of course not! What's the use in all of that?"

"Then . . . that's the end? You just sailed away?"

"Torched."

Faustus stared. _He didn't . . . Surely he'd heard him wrong . . . _Faustus studied Britain, who had slid back onto his stool, and looked as bored as he had at the beginning of his tale.

Faustus swallowed hard. "Sir . . .?" Britain looked up. "Forgive me, but . . . did you say—"

"Torched," Britain said simply. He nodded. "That's right."

"Er—"

"_Oh, _you should have seen it, Faustus," Britain cried suddenly. "The _Silver Leech_, flames curling around her sail, huge clouds of smoke billowing into the sky . . ." Britain shook his head as if in a daze. "I tell you, it's a sight I'll never forget. Not as long as I live." He chortled. "And old Charlock, burning to a crisp right there in his cabin . . . I imagine he's fish food right about now . . ."

* * *

Faustus paled. Britain had leaned onto the counter, arms crossed, and head resting upon them, eyes closed as though he would fall asleep then and there.

Without warning, he spoke.

"Who was that hooded gentleman you were speaking with, Faustus?"

Britain hadn't looked up. Chills ran down Faustus' spine. But he knew he risked incriminating himself if he remained silent.

Clearing his throat, Faustus muttered, "No one in particular, Cap. Jus' . . . jus' a traveler, that's all . . ."

Britain murmured as if half asleep. "That so? Just a traveler . . .?" He paused, his voice taking on a demanding edge. "And I suppose that traveler had nothing that set him apart from any old man, just shambling in here one day?"

Faustus bit his lower lip. Britain's gaze, at least, was mercifully averted from Faustus for the time being.

"Er, no, y-you saw 'im, Cap," he began. "Couldn't see a thing—y'know, covered in that thick cloak an' all—"

"Yes," Britain said gently, as though he was speaking to a child, "isn't that odd . . . a thick cloak, at the start of summer. And I didn't mean physically, Faustus."

"N-not really—"

"What did he give you? That paper I saw—what was it?"

"Oh, er—oh, Cappin!" Faustus waved a dismissive hand, laughing too loudly. "That, just, nothin' . . . real special, Cap—"

"Evidently special enough for you to pay him for it."

Faustus trembled. By now, Britain had straightened, and was staring at Faustus.

"_Well?"_

"Sir?"

Britain nodded toward the counter, deadpan. "Show me."

Faustus' heart skipped a beat. Looking wildly about the tavern, his mind could not register an escape. Even if he managed to elude Britain, surely his Legion would overwhelm and snatch him up as quickly as that.

And that'd be the end of old Faustus. And if he knew Britain, it wouldn't be quick.

Britain sighed in exasperation. "What the hell are you doing? You heard me! Show me what you have there!"

Faustus turned away, attempting to keep his voice from shaking. "Th-there's no need fer that," he mumbled. Avoiding Britain's glare, he added, "I t-told ya, it's nothin' special—"

In a flash, Britain whipped out his cutlass, the tip pointed at Faustus' throat. His sword arm trembled faintly, and he heaved a husky laugh. "I'll be the judge of that," he snarled. The Britannia Legion fell silent instantly, at full attention, and watching their captain. "You think you're awfully clever, don't you?"

Faustus' mouth was drier than sandpaper. He forced it to work. "_P-please don't_," he stammered.

Britain leaned forward. Faustus could feel the tip of the blade scraping his throat. "You seem to have forgotten who you're talking to, old chap. The nerve of you!—trying to hide something from _me_—I've tolerated it long enough, you hear me? You think you're clever enough to outwit _me_?"

"N-no, Captain, I didn't—"

"Just a little harder," Britain hissed. "I only have to press a little harder, and you go the way of good old Captain Charlock of the _Silver Leech._ You have _options_," he went on, amusement creeping into his voice. "_Choose wisely_."

The rest of his body rigid as a board, Faustus reached slowly beneath the counter, and withdrew a piece of parchment—slightly crumpled.

Britain encouraged him gently as a parent would. "Ah,_ there _we go. Now there's a good chap." When he pressed slightly forward once more, Faustus' hand instantly released its hold on the parchment. It drifted down to the counter, and, keeping the cutlass where it was, Britain looked it over.

"What's this . . .?" Britain slowly lowered the cutlass, frowning in thought. He placed a finger on a large island near the center of the map. "That's Hiro, and this"—he traced a dotted line with the same hand until it ended at another island—"in the northwest, why, that's Chira Chira!" A gigantic red X had been scrawled over the spot, and next to it, someone had sketched a small treasure box. A smug look on his face, Britain glanced up at Faustus.

"A treasure map!" There was general murmur of excitement from the Britannia Legion; when Britain spoke again, they fell silent. "So this is what you were hiding from me?" Britain sneered, looking Faustus up and down. "What, don't tell me _you _were going to look for it. As soft as you are, you giant heap of garbage—"

Faustus chose his words carefully, ever mindful of the cutlass that rested on the counter. "N-no, sir, a course not—it's just that—" Faustus groped for a solution, and at last muttered lamely, "I thought you'd have nary an interest in it, that's all!"

Britain's eyes widened, and then narrowed. "Oh?" His bemused look soon had Faustus stammering once more.

"Oh, er, yessir—y'know, this treasure, I thought, 'Cappin Britain, he's got better things t'do, this ain't big enough for him—y'know?—"

"You seem to think you've got me all figured out."

Britain watched him closely. Faustus could not think of an answer; his eyes were rooted to the cutlass. Britain leaned forward, his hand sliding closer to it. Faustus had to resist the urge to flinch. Then, out of nowhere, Britain laughed heartily. "Oh, indeed! A treasure map, huh? Now, isn't there one of those on every street corner—"

Faustus felt a swoon coming on, but managed, "Haha, aye, Cap! No need t'waist yer time on that rubbish—"

"But this—this is something special." Britain had suddenly turned serious. Faustus laughed a second too long, and received a withering glare from Britain in return. Straightening up, and trying not to tremble, Faustus put on his best confused expression.

"Er, what's that, Cappin. . .? There' s somethin' different about this one?" He looked at it for a few moments, and then shook his head. "Not that I can see. . . looks like any old thing."

"Are you blind, Faustus? Or just stupid?" Britain traced a symbol in the corner of the map almost lovingly. "Look at that."

The symbol consisted of the capital letters _R_ and _E_, arranged so that the _E_ was just below and to the right of the _R, _and both were intertwined with a green ribbon. A golden coat of arms loomed behind them, divided into four panels. The top left bore a gigantic yellow sun; the top right a few trees, arranged to resemble a forest. Stylized blue waves loomed in the bottom left, and a large mountain, its peak topped with snow, was in the bottom right. A gigantic sword and shield, the former layered above the latter, loomed behind everything else.

Faustus' bit his lower lip, trying to keep his voice steady. Slowly, he shook his head. "No. . . doesn't mean a thing t'me, sir . . . I'm sure it's nothing at all."

There was a long silence in the tavern. The pounding of rain against the windows and the distant thunder were nearly deafening. The Britannia Legion shifted restlessly, anxious to act, but restrained by the lack of instruction from their leader.

Britain's head was down. He seemed so engrossed in the map that Faustus wasn't sure he'd heard him speak at all.

At last Britain raised his head slowly. His eyes met Faustus' with a look so malevolent that Faustus flinched away.

"You know I don't like it when you lie," Britain said tonelessly. He seemed to speak to no one in particular. "Friends shouldn't lie to one another, Faustus. It isn't polite."

Faustus blinked; there hadn't been a hint of malice in his words. Britain sounded as though he was chiding a small child. "I wasn't, sir—I mean . . . I mean—"

"_The Roman Empire, Faustus!"_

Faustus jumped nearly a foot into the air, recoiling from Britain's sudden outburst. All at once, Britain's eyes had taken on a wild look, and his breathing began to come faster. It was reminiscent of Britain's tale, but now . . .

Britain's eyes were wide open, and turned in Faustus' direction, but he was looking right through him. A collective gasp ran through the Britannia Legion, and they began chattering in disbelief.

"_Nah . . . can't be! C-can it . . ."_

"_Here? In this old tub? Who'd a thought—?"_

"_Who in their right mind'd give that map up?"_

"_A treasure from the Roman Empire . . . can you imagine it . . .?"_

All at once, their puzzlement gave way to wistfulness.

"_Huh, anybody get their mitts on that—they set for life—"_

"_Yeah, he'd be able to buy hisself fifty ships if he wanted—and each one've 'em with a crew, too!"_

"_Huh, all I wants is some shirts that actually fit—nice silk, huh?"_

Throughout the crew's tirade, Britain remained silent, staring crazily off into space. He seemed, to Faustus, almost to drool as he gazed down at the map once more.

"This treasure belongs to the Roman Empire," he said, wide-eyed. "The world's most legendary pirate—and—and now I have the map to it—"

Faustus spoke before he could stop himself, placing a protective hand on the map. "Er, actually, it's mine—"

Faustus mentally kicked himself as Britain snapped out of his reverie, snatched up his cutlass, and levered it at Faustus' chest. "_You keep your filthy hands off of it,"_ he snapped, green eyes blazing angrier than Faustus had ever seen. "This map—this treasure—it's all _mine._ You hear?"

The crew led off a rousing cheer in the background. Faustus, thinking quickly, gently pushed the blade away from him, speaking reasonably.

"Er, Cappin . . . I'm just sayin', you don't know if that's even, er, real—who knows, could be counterfeit . . ."

Britain's scowl turned into a disappointed frown so quickly it was almost comical. Faustus heard a slight whimper in his voice. "What? Counterfeit?" The Britannia Legion quieted down.

Faustus, smiling internally, nodded sagely. "Oh, yeah, Cap. Happens all the time around here—people, lookin' t'make a little money in a hurry draw up their own maps, callin' it some famous pirate's treasure map, and sell it off to the first guy who bites. Everybody knows it. It's a good thing I was here to tell you, eh?"

Britain looked up sharply. "If that's the case, then why did _you_ pay that man for it?"

Faustus froze; his mind failed him in crafting a quick lie. "Ya have t'forgive me, sir—I don't know much about pirates. . ."

Britain rose, slowly working his way around the counter to the opening that led behind it. "Or, perhaps, you were going to sell this to someone after you bought it from that man? Knowing that it bore the Roman Empire's name, you could've named any price, and had it sold as quick as that. But then I walked in, and spoiled the whole show. Am I right?"

"Me, I'm just a humble tavern keeper . . . I wasn't tryin' to—"

Britain exploded. "Lies, lies, more lies! You filthy traitorous scum! I ought to cut out your tongue—no, your _throat_—"

Before Faustus could react, the cutlass hovered an inch from his throat. Faustus squeezed his eyes shut and shrunk against the shelves behind the counter, waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

Nothing.

Hardly daring to breathe, Faustus at last worked up the courage to open his eyes. The cutlass was still against his throat, but Britain only smirked now. He leaned in; Faustus could feel the heat of his breath.

"I really should thank you," Britain murmured. "I'd been in a rut for _weeks_ . . . Captain Charlock only provided a temporary reprieve from it. But _this_ . . . now, _this_ is what I needed. And if it hadn't been for you, I would never have come across this map. _Thank you_, old friend."

The cutlass lifted, and Britain sheathed it. Stopping to grin at Faustus once more, Britain turned and headed for the exit, sweeping up the map and storing it in one of his coat's pockets. The Britannia Legion, jeering and laughing at Faustus, rose to go as well.

Faustus, trembling, had to steady himself against the shelves behind him as Britain threw open the door, exposing the tavern to the elements.

"_Wait."_

Britain turned, eyes wide. Faustus, his breath coming in short gasps, was unable to look Britain in the eye.

"When you find it . . . you'll come back, and share some with me, won't you . . .?"

Britain only snickered. Smirking in his usual insolent way, he countered, "Count yourself lucky that I didn't kill you."

With a few closing shouts from the Britannia Legion, out they swept, leaving a bruised and battered Faustus behind.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Well there you have it!**

**This tale's kicked off and t****he prologue is done!**

**If everything goes right (i.e., I'm not lazy), this will be a long story.**

**Everything will be divided into what I call "arcs." The first arc starts next chapter!**

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**

**Updates will probably be weekly, but if I get a chapter finished early, I'll post it right away.**


	2. ACT I, Chapter I

**_ACT I: Friend Today, Gone Tomorrow_**

* * *

_At first, it was only a low muttering, and the occasional curse. Britain was convinced he was dreaming. _

But then came the persistent rustling, the scraping of something being dragged across the earthen floor, and the crackling of the flames.

Britain's eyes fluttered open to focus on the dancing shadow stretching from wall to ceiling. Breathing deeply, Britain stretched, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He focused on kicking the coarse blanket off of his legs. Beside him, Wales did not stir.

Frowning, Britain turned away from the wall onto his back, and gingerly sat up. Rubbing his eye, he watched Scotland fumbling with a mass of leaves and a few twigs in front of the fireplace. The elder boy scowled to himself, muttered a curse, and shoved leaves into the meager fire he hovered over. He glanced anxiously at the near-empty kindling pile next to him, and then back to the fire, as if calculating an equation.

A few feet away from Britain, Ireland let out a snort, and rolled onto his side. North Ireland beside him didn't so much as twitch. Scotland looked up, frowning. With a turn of his head, he noticed Britain. Immediately his face broke out into a wide grin.

He rose from the three-legged stool shoved in front of the fireplace and cooking pot, and approached Britain's pallet. "Well, good mornin' there, sleepin' beauty! Glad ya could join us!"

Britain glared to the best of his half-asleep ability, and wiped a bit of saliva from the corner of his mouth. "Can't you make it go any higher? It'll take us ages to cook anything with that thing!"

Scotland's brow creased, and he drew himself up to his full height. "Ya think I'm daft? Ya say that like I ain't been pokin' and proddin' this thing, willin' it to life for a whole hour yet! It don't wanna live!" He indicated the rapidly dwindling pile. "I gotta make do with what we got, and we ain't got a lot!"

"And whose fault is _that_?" Britain snapped. Aching everywhere, he got shakily to his feet. Scotland glared down at him.

"You so concerned about that, you run out and collect kindlin' yerself! Ya so grown-up already!"

Britain scowled at the ground. "I'm not having cold soup again today!"

Scotland snorted. "Well, ain't we high maintenance all of a sudden!" He turned on his heel, and strolled back to the stool. Sitting down upon it and facing Britain, he put placed a hand on his cheek. "Tell ya what, chief, ya want something else so bad, why don't ya run out there and hunt us somethin' good yerself, huh? Bring down a boar, or a deer—knowin' you, you could prolly manage a _bear_!" He laughed uproariously.

Britain's face felt hot, and his body went rigid. "Er, I could, if I wanted to, really! But—you know—"

Scotland blinked. "Wha? Chief, who ya think yer foolin'! You? A hunter! Nah, yer too soft and squishy fer that!"

Britain bit back the retort he longed to throw. In a strained voice, he began, "I mean, I couldn't haul it _all_ back here—"

Scotland pulled a smirk. "Course not. You can't even haul a bucket a water back here without cryin'—"

"I don't cry!" Britain snarled. "Have you _seen _where we live?"

Scotland placed a hand on his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Well, I seem to manage fine . . ."

Britain started stammering, unable to meet Scotland's eyes. "W-well, that's different! You're—"

"Bigger than you? Smarter than you? _Stronger than you_?" Scotland leaned forward, his eyes shining.

"I—I wasn't going to say—"

"Well you're right! I'm all of those things." Scotland stood, and stretched. He drew closer to Britain, leering down at him. "And you? Yer just soft, squishy, wittle Engwand! Still a babe, clinging and cryin' to Mam's skirts!"

Britain gritted his teeth, eyes locked firmly on the ground. He said nothing.

Scotland mock-frowned, and crouched next to Britain. "Aw. . . is wittle Engwand okay . . .? You aren't cryin', are ya?" He raised a hand to ruffle Britain's hair, but Britain flinched away.

"One day," he muttered. "One day, all of this will change."

Scotland chortled. "What's that, sweetheart?"

The crackling of the fire was the only sound. Wales, North Ireland, and Ireland were none the wiser. Scotland stood awkwardly, staring down at his younger brother.

"Gonna sulk now, eh?" he remarked. "Don't wanna talk to nobody? Aw, that's okay. You just pout all you want." Grabbing Britain by the back of his cloak, he pushed him toward the curtained entrance. "Go on, now. Wash yer face."

Britain stumbled into the early morning air, shivering despite himself at the slight wind that had stirred up. The sky, cloudless, was streaked with pink and gold, and the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.

In the distance, to his left, the thatched roofs and wooden frames of the village homes loomed. To his right, the mist that clung to the top of the forest's trees was just beginning to dissipate.

Groggily Britain dragged himself to the right of the spell circle that was drawn a few meters in front of their hut, where a long wooden trough of water lay with a few gray, dirt-crusted and rough-looking rags hanging off of its sides. Gazing into the clouded water, Britain dipped a rag in, withdrew, and wrung it.

As soon as the cloth made contact with his face, a voice nearly made him jump.

"'Allo! 'Allo there, little Britain!"

The rag flopped back into the water, and Britain's scowl deepened. He turned in a huff.

"Just what the hell do _you _want, frog?"

A boy about Scotland's age stood a few yards away on the dirt path leading from the village, chin-length blonde hair swaying in the wind as he waved.

The boy, France, frowned a little, crossing his arms. "Now what kind of greeting is that? Children shouldn't use words like 'hell'."

"I'll use whatever the hell words I want to use, thanks!" Britain snapped. "You're not my mother!" He turned away sullenly, muttering. "Anyway, Scotland's still inside."

Britain heard footsteps approaching; he tensed up, but willed himself not to flinch away. His eyes were rooted on the water, and his cloudy reflection.

Before he knew it, a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. Slowly, he turned.

France's smile—that blissful, content smile that Britain so hated— had returned. "Why, I came to see you, of course, Britain!"

Britain blinked, opened his mouth, and then closed it. He shook his head. "W-well, why? What do you want from me?"

France gently turned Britain to face him, and knelt down at his eye level. "To check on you, of course . . ." France reached out and pushed a lock of Britain's wild hair behind his ear. He glanced quickly back at the hut, and then lowered his voice. "Don't worry, Scotland's told me all about the situation with your mother, and I'm here for you now—I just want you to know that you'll be fine, and—"

Britain had been silently fuming for several seconds. As France continued, Britain wrenched away from France's hold, cursing him. "You get your bloody hand off of me, frog! Whatever's happening with Mum is none of your business! You can just get lost!" Britain pushed past France, and walked toward the center of the spellcasting circle. "Anyway, frog, unlike _you_, I happen to have something to do at the moment!"

France's voice took on a slight whimper as he watched Britain go. "But Scotland told me—"

Britain screamed suddenly. "Again! Those bastards—they did it again!" Glaring at the ground, he clenched his fists and kicked at the dirt.

France ran to catch up. "What's the matter—what happened. . .?"

The spellcasting circle, lovingly drawn out with white chalk, had been smudged and destroyed by unknown footprints, and sprinkled with a load of salt.

France gazed at it, his voice low. "Oh . . . so someone . . ."

"Damn it!" Britain snarled. "Why does this keep happening!"

France opened his mouth, but in that instant, Scotland's voice called out from the door of the hut.

"'Hoy, what's going on out there—oh, izzat Francey? You here awfully early!" Scotland jogged toward them.

Britain remained silent, glowering at the spellcasting circle. France turned toward him.

"Yes… I came for a little visit, that's all…" He glanced only briefly at Britain, and luckily, Scotland didn't seem to notice.

"That so? Then why you hanging around out here. . .?" His eyes fell on Britain, and he chortled. "Oh, don't _tell_ me . . . Britain was gonna show you somethin', huh?" He scoffed. "That one can't hardly make a spark, you shoulda asked me—"

Britain whirled on him. "Goddammit, can't you see anything? Look at the circle!"

Scotland's mouth opened to give a sharp retort, but his grin faded as soon as he examined the circle. "Then . . . it's . . . salted, again, huh?" He wore an unreadable expression, and looked toward the forest for a long moment.

Silence.

"You can practice without the circle," Scotland went on, as if speaking to himself. "Read up, study the incantations—maybe, you can try it without the circle—"

France stood awkwardly to the side as the two brothers surveyed the remains of the circle; one, with a white-hot rage, the other, with a strange sort of detached matter-of-factness.

* * *

_Great Britain, hunched over the chipped and scratched wood of his desk, studied his newly-acquired treasure map, fists clinched, as if willing a clue to appear out of nothing. The candle beside it had burned out long before._

Scowling to himself, he slumped down into his chair, then, a split second later, rose so quickly as to nearly send his chair sprawling to hover at the window.

Chira Chira Isle rose from the waves just as the sun did. The sky was clear, and the waves gentle; the storm of the night was merely a distant memory. Britain's breath fogged up the window.

"Er . . . Cappin—"

Britain spun around in an instant, wide-eyed, and gazing through his soldier as though looking right through him.

The Britannia Legion faltered, studying the haggard-looking face of his younger captain. "Er . . . you alright, sir?"

"Fine. Just fine," Britain said simply. The wild grin did not leave his face, and the Britannia Legion felt the urge to look over his shoulder. He tilted his head slightly. "Did you need something . . .?"

The Britannia Legion cleared his throat. "Er, fergive me fer sayin', sir, but . . . you don't, er, look too good . . ."

"Irrelevant. I _feel_ amazing . . . I'm so close to that treasure . . . I can almost taste it—"

"But ya don't wanna hurt or exhaust yerself before gettin' it sir—maybe a little nap will do ya just fine, since we got a little while afore we make landfall—"

Britain snarled, and made a clumsy grab for his cutlass. "Maybe you've forgotten who's in charge here. What kind of world would we be in if the captain _took_ orders instead of gave them, hmm?"

Despite Britain's fatigued look, that same mania twinkled in his eye. The Britannia Legion shook his head quickly. "Er, 'course yer right, sir. Jus' a little suggestion, that's all, don't pay me no mind at all . . .just here ta report that we just ran outta biscuits, tha's all . . . "

Slowly, hands held up in a placating gesture, he retreated backward out of the cabin. Britain felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, and he rubbed, irritated, at one of his eyes.

A glance at the ruby on the desk, as the sun's rays caught it _just_ right, put a smile on his face, and he resumed his vigil at the window, just as he had through the night before.

* * *

Chira Chira Isle was coming alive as the _Britannia Angel_ glided into port and anchored. The docks were abuzz with all manner of merchants, unloading their wares and calling to one another over the screeching of seagulls and the crashing waves.

Britain stood on deck alone, squinting under the bright sunlight, and looking out over the docks. His Legion stood on the deck in a large group several yards away, chattering excitedly. A Britannia Legion, the same fellow who had addressed him before, ambled up to him.

"Real fine day for a treasure hunt, eh, Cap?" he grinned. "So, er, the crew wants t'know when we're goin' . . ."

Britain only chuckled. For a long moment, he was silent.

"Er . . . what's wrong, Cap?"

"Keep the Legion in order while I'm gone, got it? Keep everyone real quiet. I don't want any trouble."

The Britannia Legion raised an eyebrow. "Er, what do ya mean, Cap? You'll be able to do that yerself—"

"I'm going ashore alone, got it? I don't need all of you tagging along this time."

He gaped. "Wha . . . ya mean we ain't treasure huntin' with ya, Cap?" He groaned aloud. "But where' the fun in stayin'—"

Britain was suddenly looking right in his face, looking up with a withering stare. "Let me tell you something. I don't want any unnecessary disturbances, got it? No one, and I repeat _no one_ is going to know about this. I'm going to go ashore, and find the treasure. When we've got it safely loaded onto the ship, _then_ we can begin to _think_ about fun. Got that?"

"Er—yessir!" He threw a quick, lopsided salute, and averted his eyes, trying to disguise his disappointment.

"After all," Britain went on, "a chance like this comes once a in a lifetime . . ." He seemed to speak to no one in particular. "The Great Roman Empire . . . as much as he traveled, as many places as he conquered, it's bound to be . . . unimaginable . . ."

The Britannia Legion followed his captain's gaze to the right, to the ship anchored directly next to the _Britannia Angel._

The differences could not have been more obvious, though the ships were approximately the same size; the grimy, haphazardly patched _Britannia Angel,_ with its paint chipping, several broken windows, and ragged-looking sail, floated directly next to a carefully painted, elaborately decorated ship—cream-colored, and spotless, with its wood trimmed with gold and silver.

Britain scoffed. "I'd know that ship anywhere . . . The _Red Lilly._" Britain almost spat the words, shaking his head slowly.

The Britannia Legion looked anxiously at the _Red Lilly_. "Er, Cap, what if ya run into those Sea Lilly guys all on yer own. . . what if ya can't escape from 'em?" Britain gave him a bemused look, and the words came tumbling out of his mouth. "Well, er, I mean, I know they're just a bunch of perfumed, coifed fops, but they got swords too, sir, and if they see you alone, they'll surround you, and have you dead quick as that—"

Britain just snorted. "You don't know their captain like I do. Something that smart would never cross his mind."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**So the plot thickens!**

**It seems as if an obstacle has jumped into Britain's way . . . **

**So who are these Sea Lilly guys anyway?**

* * *

**Regarding the England/Britain thing:**

**Britain's family (that is, his brothers) refer to him as "England," while everyone else refers to him as "Britain."**

**It's based off of something that Himaruya said - in the Hetalia canon, the character "Britain" represents both England _and_ the UK (since England itself no longer exists as a separate entity, so while he would be known as "Britain" to other countries, his brothers would call him "England").**

* * *

**Also, human OCs will play small parts in this story, but don't worry - the focus will be on the countries we know and love!**

**(...even if they aren't technically _countries_ in this world...but hey.)**

**Oh yeah, and I don't own Hetalia and all that stuff...**

**Thanks for reading, and please review!**

**All comments and feedback appreciated!**


	3. ACT I, Chapter II

_A shiver ran down France's spine. The wind had picked up._

The brothers were silent for several more moments. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, France cleared his throat, and in that second, Scotland snapped back to reality. Turning away from the forest, he heaved a sigh.

"Er . . . anyway, France. . .since yer here so early, how'd you like to have a bit of breakfast—?"

Britain's eyes widened. "_What?_ Are you _insane_?" He pointed at France, his voice becoming shrill with disbelief. "There's barely enough for _us_, let alone _him—"_

Scotland glowered at him. "Shut yer trap, brat. France came here so early, he prolly didn't have time to eat anything. Right?"

France laughed nervously. "Well, no . . . but that's quite okay, I'm not really all that—" The tell-tale rumbling cut him off.

Scotland's grin returned. "Well, that settles it, then! Yer eatin' with the family!"

Britain rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. He sulked for a few seconds, but then, a lopsided grin appeared on his face as he turned toward France. "I hope you like watered-down soup, chum!"

France chuckled weakly, but the joke was lost on Scotland, who grimaced at Britain.

Britain didn't head the warning. "Well how about this: Since we have a guest today, why don't we dip the water trough into the pot? That'll net us five times the soup, easily!"

Scotland took a step toward Britain. "Yer _so _funny, aren't you—"

France was between them in a flash, laughing weakly, and placing a hand on Scotland's chest and Britain's head. "Aha . . . hold on! I think I have a few coins to spend here—" Licking his lips thoughtfully, he searched his left pocket, and then his right one, withdrawing a worn burlap sack tied with a strip of rope. France spoke in a far-too-cheerful voice. "Well what do you know! How about we buy something good to eat in the village?"

Britain's face lit up. "You mean . . . you mean we're getting _bread_? Or. . . or some meat? Or—" He gasped, mouth beginning to water. "_Cake_?"

Scotland shot a warning glance at Britain, and smiled at France. "Oh, mighty kind o' ya, but you don't have to—"

"What! Don't listen to _him!" _Britain took two fistfuls of France's cloak in his hands, and shook him. "_Buy something, you fool!"_

Scotland scowled, trying to push past France. "You know what—"

"Oh, please!" France said, smiling foolishly. "I _insist. _It's my treat. I know how things have been for all of you, and I wouldn't hesitate to do my part to chip in." Pocketing the sack once more, he spread his arms. "After all, we're all friends here, aren't we? Friends stick together."

Scotland shook his head. "Look, er, that's real kind of ya an' all, but, really—"

Britain harrumphed and pushed France toward the dirt path leading toward the village. "You know what, _fine!_ Eat your cold, watery soup! But I'm getting real food!" Without stopping, he grinned and called over his shoulder. "And if you're lucky, I'll bring some back for you!"

* * *

France walked down the village's single street, sidestepping crowds of people who clustered in front of doors and shops, chatting and laughing, and always keeping an eye on Britain to his right.

Glowering at the dust beneath his feet, Britain ignored the stares he received as he passed. A stony silence reigned between them.

"_That's him, isn't it?"_ someone mumbled. "_The witch's brat?"_

"_One of them," _another added, a sneer in his voice_. "Who knows how many others there are—what, with that woman running out of that hovel of theirs every other day—"_

"_You know,"_ a tall woman wearing a flower-patterned dress remarked much too loudly, _"I heard that the other day, Millie caught her husband sneaking out in the middle of the night again. Didn't see him when he left, but woke up when he stumbled in early that next morning—"_

A gasp ran through the ranks of her onlookers.

"_So . . . so did he really—"_

The woman wrinkled her nose. _"He was . . .rather unkempt when he came back. His clothes and hair stained with dirt, his face ruddy-looking—" _She gave her audience a meaningful look._ "Anything could be happening in that forest."_

Britain's unreadable stare lingered on her for several seconds. She, too, seemed to be looking right past her audience, right at him. Glancing quickly at Britain, France urged him on again. They walked by slowly, and France spoke at last, keeping his voice low. "They did it again, didn't they?"

Britain looked blankly at France. "Let's hurry it up, can't we, France? I'm hungry." He turned away just as quickly. France hesitated a second as Britain began to walk off, and the woman's voice floated over the crowd once again.

"And besides, knowing _their kind_, that sort of thing would be _right up_ her alley—"

France hurried to catch up to Britain.

France fell into step with Britain, although ambled along at a more relaxed pace due to his longer legs. "Britain . . . it was your brothers again, wasn't it? That's where those bruises came from."

Britain stopped and turned toward France. The blackish bruise that had formed under his right eye and on his left cheek were evidence to his point. "Don't worry about it," Britain said tonelessly. He continued moving.

France sighed desperately. "Why do you let them do that to you, Britain? Why not rebel? Do _something_—"

Britain stopped once more, and when he spoke, France had to strain to hear him. "It doesn't hurt that much. I'm fine, okay?" His voice rose in volume, and a little of Britain's classic huffiness returned. "Anyway, chum, give me a bit more credit than that, alright? I can take it—" He smiled a little. "Besides, there're times when I give out just as much as I take—you should see it!" He laughed then.

France stared, and despite himself, managed a small smile. "If you . . . say so, Britain—"

Britain's face suddenly turned solemn. "There are more important things to worry about right now," he intoned. France raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eye.

"Why_ thank you_, sir, I'll take note of that—"

* * *

Britain clamored for the burlap sack that had once held France's coins, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the two made their way toward the village's exit. "Come on—_give it_ to me already—"

France chuckled, holding the bag out of Britain's reach. "Hah! And have you devour it all? Nice try."

"I just want _one piece_—I swear I'll give it back—"

"Really?" France tilted his head, grinning. "Come on, then—" He held it within Britain's reach, only to snatch it upwards as Britain made a grab for it. He repeated the movement several more times. "You have to want it, Britain—just a _little_ more—come on, it's easy—just get taller!"

Britain's face reddened. "Hand it _over_, frog!"

Britain lunged, and caught France off guard. In a flash, he took off as fast as he could go, running toward the path and laughing. "Take _that,_ idiot! It's all _mine_ now—"

He ran directly into the woman wearing the dress. The force of the collision sent him sprawling backwards, and the crowd that had gathered around her retreated a few steps.

The woman grimaced, brushing nonexistent dirt from her clothes. "Ugh, can't you watch we're you're going, you little urchin? You'll ruin my best dress!"

Britain, dazed, rolled back to his feet. "What?" He paled. Ten or eleven people stared at him, with looks that were a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

The woman gave him a severe look. "Now you get your dirty little self back down that road and back to your little hut, you got that? Civilized people shouldn't have to look at your ugly face."

Britain gaped.

Snickers ran through the crowd, as well as a few murmurs of agreement.

France arrived soon after, panting heavily, a smile on his face. "No fair, Britain—I wasn't ready—" He stopped upon noticing the woman, and gave a slight tilt of his head, his smile twitching at the corners. "Oh, er, good morning, Ms. Grelle—"

The woman, Grelle, gave him a smile. "Ah, hello, France. It's always good to see you—how've you been?" She wrinkled her nose, and glowered at Britain. "Please don't tell me you're with this . . . _thing . . ."_

France bit his lower lip, and looked away. "Er, well . . . you see . . ." There was silence for several seconds.

Britain's eyes widened at him, and his anger exploded. "Who the hell do you think you're talking to, huh?" he snapped at Grelle. "Watch your bloody mouth!"

The crowd began muttering among themselves.

Grelle, for her part, went pale and tight-lipped. Britain stood there, drawn up to his full height, giving her a triumphant look. She stepped forward quickly, and slapped Britain across his bruised cheek.

The crowd went dead silent.

Britain, his eyes locked on the ground, raised a hand to touch his cheek.

For her part, Grelle sneered. "Learn your place, you cur. While all of that may be acceptable to _your_ kind, when you're talking with civilized people, you better keep a civil tongue in your head."

Britain's hand dropped, and he turned without a word, running toward the village's exit, his head down. Jeers and taunts were flung after him.

"_That's right, you get outta here—"_

"_Little urchin, scum of the earth!"_

"_Troublemaker! Get lost!"_

Grelle threw back her head and laughed. Placing her hands on her hips, she turned toward France. "Now, let's have no more of this spending time with those savages, alright, France? I'd hate to see the charming, sweet boy your mother raised go to waste."

France's head bobbed a few times as he watched Britain go.

* * *

_Great Britain kept his head down, hands stuffed firmly in the pockets of his tattered overcoat, and eyes occasionally flitting left or right to take in the entirety of a sellers' stall, or a group of people lounging on a bench in the marketplace._

Britain cursed inwardly. Chira Chira, the commercial center of the Western Sea, and a map with nothing but a picture of the island as a whole on it.

He was off to a _great_ start.

He weaved through the crowd, doing his best not to attract stares of shoppers or tourists. He stopped, looked briefly to his left and right, and ducked into a small alleyway formed by two sellers' stalls.

Gently he withdrew the treasure map, smoothing out any crinkles and gazing hard at it. Turning it this way and that, holding it under the shadow of the stalls, then into the light.

_Invisible ink?_

It had to be.

Some sort of clue just had to reveal itself eventually.

He flipped it over, and blinked at a small message that had been scrawled on the back, with a drawing quickly-drawn, somewhat lopsided heart at the top of the map, and a smiling face beneath it.

_Why hey there, lucky, lucky discoverer of this map!_

_Your quest begins here, and here's the first clue!_

_Good luck!_

_(because seriously—you'll probably need it)_

_Love,_

_The Roman Empire~_

Britain stared for several seconds. He could not keep himself from speaking aloud. "What the hell kind of clue is _this?_ It says _nothing about_ where this treasure is supposed to be—"

* * *

At the stall on Britain's left, a young man with blonde hair and a round face was having a dilemma.

"Okay—okay—the black! Yeah, the black!"

The shopkeeper looked at him, deadpan, and reached for a roll of black fabric in front of him.

"No—that's not it! Er, maybe it was the red—yeah. . ."

The shopkeeper's eye twitched slightly, and he reached for a roll of red fabric to his left.

"No, black—red!—black!—red—crud . . ."

The shopkeeper gritted his teeth, staring at his customer. The few patrons waiting behind him rolled their eyes and moved away.

"Oh, great . . . just _great."_ Desperately, he looked from left to right, shaking his head. "I can't remember which one the captain wanted me to pick up . . ." He furrowed his brow in concentration, studying both fabrics closely.

Beside him, a taller, but much scruffier-looking man carried several bags, all tied carefully with a ribbon. There were bags under his eyes, and he looked at his companion with an unreadable expression. He glanced back over his shoulder, toward the docks.

"Er, sir . . . It's best we get back as soon as possible, you never know about storms—"

"Oh, oh, _yeah_, I'll be there in a sec—er—" the man said too loudly, adding a nervous laugh. "Crap . . . I'll be in so much trouble when I get back . . ." he muttered to himself.

The shopkeeper scowled. "Excuse me, _sir_, but which did you want?"

The man nearly jumped. "Oh, yeah, er, the _red_ . . .This time, I'm sixty-three percent sure." He folded his arms, nodding in satisfaction.

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. The man only smiled a bit crookedly and nodded. The shopkeeper rolled his eyes and reached for the red roll.

The customer threw out his hands. "Wait! I meant the black—"

The shopkeeper sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes skyward and throwing up his hands. He shoved both rolls into the man's hands. "_Just take them!"_

The customer stumbled a bit, trying to arrange the thin, long rolls of fabric into something a bit more manageable. The man's face broke out into a wide smile. "Wow! Thanks a lot, mister! This really means a lot to me—you're a lifesaver!"

The customer muttered something under his breath about "tourists," glowered at the man, and pulled down the shutter which proclaimed his stall closed.

The man beamed, and turned on his heel, looking back over his shoulder at his companion as he started toward the docks. "Well then! Mission accomplished! Let's run back to the boat—"

* * *

Britain had the map half-pocketed when he was suddenly knocked off of his feet, and sent sprawling forwards, in a jumble of limbs and fabric.

He hit the ground hard and jumped up immediately, glaring at the perpetrator. On reflex, he made a grab at his cutlass, which he had hidden inside of his overcoat. "Watch where the hell you're going, _idiot_!"

The round-faced young man rose slowly, rubbing the top of his head as his companion came to a stop behind him. "Ouch . . . geez—" Upon noticing Britain, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sorry 'bout that!" He gave Britain a gentle smile. "Guess I wasn't looking where I was going, huh?" The fabric scattered around caused him to smack his forehead in alarm. "Oh no—the stuff—"

Britain watched him scrambling about with a sneer, trying to reroll the fabric, anxiously brushing the dirt off of it.

"Uh oh, gotta be careful with this stuff—"

His companion stepped up, hesitating a second. "Er, let me grab that for you, sir—"

The man only frowned, indicating the bags that dangled off of his arms. "But you're already carrying so much—you couldn't take this too, silly!" He smiled happily. "It's alright, I've got it! But thanks for asking!"

Britain rolled his eyes, and turned away in annoyance.

"Huh—wait, what's this?" At the man's inquisitive tone, Britain turned back to find him clutching a piece of parchment in his hands, the fabric rolls neatly intact on the ground, and the man studying the parchment carefully. His eyes lit up, and he looked toward Britain. "Hey, isn't this—"

In a split second, Britain had snatched the parchment back, his face red. "Keep your _hands_ off of that, got it?"

But the man's excitement did not waver. "That's a _treasure map_, huh?" he exclaimed, causing Britain to cringe. "And by the looks of it—it's _right_ on this islan—"

Cursing under his breath, Britain made a desperate grab for his cutlass, but before he could strike, another, more familiar, voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Well, _look_ who it is—if it isn't that unkempt, scrawny little ragamuffin himself?"

A third man, this one about Britain's height, with chin-length blonde hair and light stubble on his chin, strode toward the two. Britain's eyes narrowed and the smirk returned to his face. He loosened the grip on his cutlass.

"Just my luck," Britain said wryly, keeping his eyes locked on the man's. "I thought I'd be lucky enough to miss you . . ."

The man stopped short and gazed at Britain, pursing his lips slightly. "Still in those old rags, I see," he said with a sigh of disapproval. "_So_ last season. Let me guess." He grinned. "That's when you washed that thing last, correct?"

Britain only chuckled. "Well of _course_ I'd run into you here, toadface," he said, as if answering his own statement. "Flitting about the fountains and lounging in the sun as always, your nose stuck in a book instead of sailing the seas like you should be."

The shorter man looked from one to the other, a hand on his cheek. "Er . . . do you two know each other?"

The other man gasped aloud, turning toward the shorter man suddenly. "Oh dear! I've overlooked someone? Well, how rude of me!" He drew himself up to his full height, and with a hand, pushed up his hair, smiling winningly.

"I am Sir France, Captain of the Sea Lilly pirates, and master of the ship _Red Lilly_! I know, I know, it's awfully nice to meet me—" He bowed at the waist to the left, then to the right, holding out his hands. "But you may hold your applause until further notice!"

The man raised an eyebrow. "Er . . . right." He offered a smile. "Nice to meet you. I'm Finland!"

"Hey, frogface," Britain called out, completely ignoring Finland and looking to his left and right. "Where is your crew of simpering ninnies? They're usually stuck you like glue—after all, all cowards know that there's safety in numbers." He sneered. "Or is everyone back at the ship _having a nice little nap_?"

"Oh, just enjoying a quiet afternoon in the library—the pastime of any civilized man. But _you_ wouldn't know, would you?" He, too, looked around him. "What are your low-brow, shifty-eyed grunts? I don't see them trying to pinch anything from the stalls . . ."

"Back on the _Britannia Angel_. You know, we're anchored right next to each other. Maybe I should've sent a raiding party—would have roused your lazy asses, wouldn't it?"

France groaned, shaking his head in disappointment. "Your floating eyesore of a grimy, worn-down ship floating right next to the _Red Lilly?_ It's ruined by mere association!"

Before Britain could respond, France looked closely at him, a twinkle in his eye. "Well, what's that you have there, dear?"

Britain cursed himself, and stuffed the map into his pocket, only for Finland to blurt it out at the last second.

"Oh, that? It's a treasure map!"

France's eyes shone with interest. "Ah! Is that so? What sort of treasure?"

"Well—" Finland started, but Britain interrupted him.

"It's none of _your_ business, fop. It_'s mine_. So you can just skip back to your ship and forget about it. Understand?"

France looked impish. "What's the matter? Awfully defensive, aren't we?" He edged toward Britain, tilting his head toward him. "What are you _afraid of?_ Huh?"

"Afraid? What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

France walked a full arc around Britain, leering at him. "Oh, forgive me, sweetheart, but you trying to hide this says an _awful_ lot about you. And your confidence level." He stopped in front of Britain, with his back turned to him. "In that you have none."

"_What?"_ Britain's hand strayed to his cutlass, and it was a quarter drawn out of his belt when France went on.

"Oh, _I _get it well and good. You think that, if I knew about the treasure, I'd beat you to it. Yup. You wouldn't stand a _chance."_

Britain was trembling with indignation now, and the cutlass was momentarily forgotten in favor of Britain's verbal lambasts. "Well I'll have _you _know, snail breath, that I could find that treasure _with_ or _without_ you coming along. _You _are the one who wouldn't stand a chance!"

France smirked, his eyes narrowed. "Oh? _Prove it."_

Britain's eyes widened, and he scowled.

Finland clapped his hands together, smiling happily. "What a great idea! A group treasure hunt! I mean, three heads are better than one, and six eyes are better than two . . . and thirty fingers are better than—"

Britain whirled on him. "Just what makes you think _you're_ coming along?"

Finland blinked, and tilted his head slightly. "_Well_ . . . you know that map? There's a drawing of a small treasure chest on it. I've seen that chest before."

Britain was about him in a split second, grabbing the front of his shirt. "_What? You have? Where?"_

Finland put a bit of distance between them, and then frowned in thoughtfulness. "Okay, here's the weird part . . . a kid has it."

"A child?" France cried in disbelief. "But . . . how would a child come into possession of a pirate's treasure?"

"A child was just carrying around a little treasure chest?"

Finland nodded. "Yeah. Told you it was weird! I saw him yesterday, right here in the marketplace, ducking between stalls and stealing something to eat."

"So he's . . ." France indicated the crowds nearby. "Out . . . here somewhere? He lives somewhere in town?"

"If he's stealing food, then . . . he must be homeless," Britain said tonelessly. France glanced at him briefly, and Finland nodded.

"Yeah, I think so—he left out of the east entrance, heading over the flatlands, and disappeared into the distance!"

"Then . . . he lives in the wilderness . . . with a _treasure chest_?" France was shaking his head.

Britain snarled and rounded on Finland. "You're _lying_, aren't you? You're just trying to get in on the treasure."

Finland shook his head vigorously. "No, guys, I swear I saw him! A little blonde-haired kid, with blue eyes—and carrying a little gold treasure chest just like the one on that map!"

"You must think I was born yesterday," Britain went on, moving to withdraw his cutlass. France's hand stopped his.

"_Idiot_. Listen, this is the only lead we've got. Don't go treating it like nothing."

Britain felt himself redden, and he jammed the cutlass back into his belt. "You don't need to tell me that!" he snapped.

France moved away, and looked east, through the rest of the stalls to the town gate. "East, east," he mumbled to himself, and then said out loud for the benefit of the group, "The only thing that way is the Harimba Cave System—"

Britain stared into the distance. "The Harimba Cave System . . . that's the one with the beast in it, isn't it?"

"Beast?" Finland's mouth twitched. "Wait, _what_? There's some kind of beast around here?"

Britain and France looked at him, deadpan.

"It's _only_ the most famous aspect of this island. What, did you think it was just the pretty stalls and fountains?" Britain looked down his nose at Finland.

Finland looked thoughtful for a second. "Er . . . yeah, actually—"

"Well why do you think the walls and the gates were built?" Britain snapped at him in irritation. "To keep out the beast!"

France added quickly, "Although it doesn't come out much anymore—"

"Er, sorry . . ." He looked sheepish, and rubbed at the back of his head. "I'm not from around here, so I don't know about—"

France turned suddenly. "Hold on. This makes even _less_ sense—a child, living in _that_ cave system—"

Britain wore a smug look, leering at Finland. "Now, what did I tell you? He's obviously lying, trying to send us chasing a false trail while he goes to claim the treasure for himself—"

Finland crossed his arms, scowling at the two. "Okay, you know _what? _If you don't believe me, then fine! I'll just chase after the treasure _on my own_." Finland turned to his companion, grinning excitedly. "Hey, can you take this stuff back to the boat on your own? I've got a treasure to find!"

At his companion's quick nod, Finland turned on his heel. "Well, it was nice meeting you two! So long!" He marched quickly away, back straight, toward the east wallgate.

France and Britain watched him go with equally bemused looks.

"If it's a trick, he's awfully into it," France murmured.

"You're telling me," Britain answered in disbelief. "Is he . . . really going to the caves? A foreigner, to boot?"

France's eyes widened, his voice becoming slightly hysterical. "I never thought about that—he'll get himself killed—"

Britain snorted and folded his arms behind his head. "Serves him right, the filthy liar. I don't like his face anyway."

Suddenly Britain's eyes widened. "Where the hell do you think you're going, frog?"

France had begun walking off, following behind Finland.

"To the caves! I have to make sure Finland doesn't get too hurt—"

"_What? _You mean you actually believe his story—_how stupid can you get?" _Britain called after him.

France did not turn around.

Finland was far ahead now, exiting the east wallgate, with France jogging behind him.

Britain, left behind, looked to his left, then right, and withdrew the map from his pocket, smoothing out the crinkles it had accumulated.

Britain's eyes lingered on the drawing of the treasure map. Sighing in exasperation, he shoved the map back into his pocket, and ran to catch up.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**What awaits Britain and company in the Harimba Cave System?**

**And is the boy Finland speaks of fact, or a mere fabrication?**

* * *

**Please review!**

**Tell me things you liked, didn't like, what I could improve on, anything!**

**Thanks for reading!**


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